Against the Slavers A1: Slave Pits of the Undercity

[Tonguez]

Orbril rides Poggy into the Wench having left Mr Pymm behind on the ship. The dog and gnome survey the inn with contempt and just a little trepidation. Dismounting Poggy is directed under the table while the gnome joins the others swilling the slimey ale.

Orbril is uncomfortable and watchful of any sign of danger or gnomes but says nothing leaving 'negotiations' to the captain...

 

[Hammerhead]

Marcon avoids the drink, reasoning that it's best to keep his senses clear and to avoid guzzling any poisonous swill. A frown seems carved onto his features as he sits uncomfortably in the tavern.

Upon the approach of the dirty man, Marcon raises an eyebrow, stating Oh? I wonder what this villain wants, and how he knows of our supposed desires?

 

[Bob Aberton]

Captain Jack leans back in his chair and sips his ale, shooting a measured glance at the oaf.

"Maybe we'd like t' trade, an' then again, maybe not. I didn't come t' this...place...for any common goods. I'm in the market, ye might say, for a certain rare cargo, cargo which can't be found in every port. Highly perishable cargo, if y' catch my drift, eh? What sort of wares might this Baron of yours carry?"

He suppresses a confident smirk as he observes the anxiousness apparent in this oaf's features.

"My time is valuable, I warn you. I'll not spend it on such as your master if doesn't carry what I'm lookin' for - or at th' very least, information to that end."

Having said his piece, he takes another sip of the disgusting brew, supppressing a grimace - can't show squeamishness in a place like this - and awaits to see what reply this fellow will make.

 

[Halivar]

The ugly toady looks at Capt. Jack squeamishly. "Be ye not too loud, m'lawd. We's got whatcher lookin' fer. Highly perishable cargo, eh?" The toady falls into a coughing fit as he tries to laugh. "Aye, good sir, we's got goods that's 's perishin' all d' time!" More coughing erupts at his lame attempt at humor.

He leans close to Capt. Jack. Now everyone at the table can smell his horrible breath. He whispers so that only those at the table may hear, "You might's be sayin', good sir, that's we's be sellin' slaves!" At this point, the man may die from his own laughter. And good riddance to him, too. He turns and takes his coughing fit to the stairs leading to the balcony, where he disappears into darkness.

 

[ferretguy]

Tarasin looks to the cap'n..Well sirrah...looks like the new cargoawaits...best not keep him waitin'.
Tarasin stands waiting for the others to follow the disgusting human.

 

[rangerjohn]

Thellys reviews his spells in mind, in case of trouble. As he too follows the oaf up the stairs.

 

[Ankh-Morpork Guard]

Keeping an emotionless expression dispire his disgust of the events around him, Feinar stays near the Captain. He sword is at least concealed under a cloak, though it is large enough that it is still apparent...but not blatant. His bow is across his back, and thankfully, his quiver is capped to hide the arrows.

 

[Hammerhead]

Marcon resists his growing urge to punch the odious man's brown teeth straight down his throat, remembering the necessity of his mission. I hate this place, he thinks to himself as he follows Captain Jack and the rest of the group up the stairs, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor.

 

[Bob Aberton]

Captain Jack swills down the rest of the drink (no use in wasting gold on un-quaffed alcohol), grimaces, and goes to follow the dirty fellow up the stairs, making a cursory check of his weapons - the rapier in plain view and the dagger in his boot.

He sets foot on the first stair, then turns around, giving the others a pointed look and gesturing at the weapon on his hip to make sure they got the message, although he is sure a group as...borderline paranoid...as his companions already have their steel ready to draw.

Into the belly of the beast, as it were...here's hoping I ain't been recognized yet...

He loosens his sword in its sheath and strides up the stairs, trying to project the image of wealthy and self-assured merchant-captain.

 

[Halivar]

As you trump up the stairs, you find that the balcony that was shrouded in darkness from the below in the common room is actually very dimly lit by two lanterns in the corner. A large, fat human sits at a table laden with scrumptious goodies that all look half eaten. In his hand he holds what appears to be a very nice cigar. Looted, no doubt, by the slave raiders.

The dirty oaf is standing in the corner, grinning nervously, while disinterested thugs play cards at a nearby table. The fat human has two pretty wenches lean on each side of him, each holding a large bone with bits of meat still on them. The "baron" apparently doesn't feed himself.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," the "baron" says surprisingly articulately. He is perhaps the most immaculately dressed gent you have yet seen in Highport. His accent indicates that he is no local baron at all, but rather a foreigner (perhaps even adventurer) who has fallen in with the slavers. "I'm the Baron, and I manage commercial interests for certain vendors of goods in these parts. I'd ask you to have a seat, but our business is best kept short."

He take a long puff on his cigar, and blows a smoke ring over your heads. "The cost is 500 per item. The price is non-negotiable. Bring your money to the Temple of Ehlonna at midnight, and we'll take you down to the storage facility, where you may pick out the items you wish to purchase."

He turns to the wench on his right and tears a chunk of meat off the bone with his teeth. Speaking while chewing, he give you a long and steady gaze and says, "Well? Our business is finished for now."